


The Artist in His Studio

by AgentCoop, laisserais



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: 1940s, Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes, Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Secret Relationship, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-11-03 02:44:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10958022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentCoop/pseuds/AgentCoop, https://archiveofourown.org/users/laisserais/pseuds/laisserais
Summary: A small moment in the lives of two men, two friends, two brothers. A glimpse of true love—framed against the harsh realities of war, and the world in the 1940s.





	The Artist in His Studio

**Author's Note:**

> It's finally happening! Our collaboration for the Captain America Reverse Big Bang 2017 with art by Laisserais and fic by AgentCoop. Many thanks to all the wonderful people who helped me read through this and brainstorm--especially Lin, Gerry, Alice, and Naomi. 
> 
> And of course, a huge thank you to Laisserais. Without this amazing artwork, this fic would have never been written!

 

       The apartment sits on the corner of the block, in a neighborhood on the north side of Prospect Park. It is in a beautiful brownstone, and is spacious—two bedrooms, in addition to a kitchen and small living space. It's a perfect place for them both, filled with memories young and old. Occasionally, he brushes upon a brief impression left from his mother—the small charred burn on the wooden floor beams near the oven, the worn mark impressed upon the kitchen table where her elbow rested each night—but these moments only bring a smile of recollection to his face. The apartment is his now. The apartment is theirs now.

       Even in death, Sarah Rogers looked out for her son.

       He's finishing up a rough sketch at the desk in his studio when he hears Bucky come in. It's a quiet sort of entrance, the sort that can be persuaded to go unnoticed by most. Steve grins to himself and continues shading. He hears the soft sigh of air as the door is eased closed, hears the sound of heavy rubber soles whispering across the hardwood. The heavy, viscous scent of cigarettes and sweat languidly curls its way into his room. He carefully returns his pen to its proper place on his desk and turns around from his stool.

       "Hey, Buck."

       "Jeez, Steve. How do you always figure I'm here?"

       Bucky is leaning against the door frame, his whole body relaxed. His eyes look tired, pure exhaustion evident after a long day of manual labor, but his grin lights up the room.

       Steve smiles again, wider this time, and leans forward slightly. "I can smell you a mile off, Barnes. You stink." He pauses a moment, looking out the window at the setting sun. “Where've you been? You're later than usual.”

       Bucky shrugs and ambles over to the desk. “There was an extra shipment in at the docks. They needed a bunch of us to help unload. I figured we could use the extra—”

       he pauses for a moment, suddenly distracted. “What're you working on?”

       Steve turns back to the half-finished drawing on his desk. “It's rough. It's just a sketch of this idea I had...for this thing—”

       “No, it's really great, Steve! It looks like… I don't know, it could be one of those posters you see down by the docks y'know? Like, _We Want You!_ or something. Wait...” He picks up the page. “Don't they pay for those designs? You could sell these or work for the government doin' your art or maybe even—”

       He stops mid-sentence—notices the silence in the room.

        “What?”

       Steve looks at him impatiently. “You gonna let me finish Buck?”

       He at least has the decency to look mildly ashamed while setting the sketch down.

       Steve pulls out a small booklet from his breast pocket and hands it over to Bucky. “The Office of War Information Buck. They're holdin' a contest. For posters centered around a theme: _The Need to Fight_. If you win, well… well you get to work for them and all. It doesn't pay. But you know I can't fight and this…” he pauses and looks down at the floor. “This is something I can _do_.” He swallows and glances back up into Bucky's eyes.

       Bucky moves as if to grab Steve's hand, then suddenly stops, eyes flicking towards the window. He steps back instead and once again picks up the sketch.

       “Well. They'd be knuckleheads if they didn't pick yours. Serious. This is real amazing, Steve. Just wait. It'll be plastered all over town!”

       Steve feels his cheeks turn red—swallows his embarrassment at the praise and starts to turn away.

       “Hey—what’re you going to call this guy?”

       Steve chuckles for a moment and feels more warmth rise to his cheeks. “Uh. Well. In my head he's kinda goin' by Captain America.”

       “Captain America. I kinda like it.”

       Their eyes find each other’s again and a slow silence blossoms.

\---

       Here are the rules. They are friends. This will not change. They don't touch each other. They don't look. They are not queers, or fairies, or polite 'homosexuals'. Bucky likes dames. Steve just is. They live in the apartment together on a quiet lane and if they open the shutters and the wind blows just right, then the smell of wisteria leaks through the gaps and it's almost like Sarah Rogers is still alive and in the kitchen, cooking a quick meal for two small boys who are playing cops and robbers in the street. But she's not and they aren't. So when the sun sets and the windows are closed and all they can smell is each other, then sometimes things change and there are no more rules.

\---

       The sun hasn't set. So when Bucky breaks the silence to suddenly reach out a hand to Steve's cheek as if to feel the heat emanating from his skin, Steve shrugs it away and stands up.

       "I should probably start something for dinner. And you could maybe get yourself cleaned up."

       But he smiles as turns to leave the studio.

       Bucky pauses for a moment to card his fingers through the tangles in his hair.

       But he smiles too.

 

* * *

 

       It's in the heavy darkness of the Brooklyn night that he can taste the callouses on Bucky's fingertips. The shutters are pulled closed in the bedroom. The moonlight barely trickles its way through small fissures and though there are two bodies in the bed, nothing is illuminated. He lays still—still enough to hear the city noise outside the window. Still enough to hear his breath inside the room. Each sudden intake of air is muted by the weight of the hand covering his mouth and he wants to cry out and he wants to fly but it is the gradual nature of each touch which he melts towards that causes the slow unraveling of his mind.

       He can feel Bucky's tongue sliding up his length and pausing at the tip; he can feel Bucky’s mouth slowly close over him and then come away again. He feels each warm exhale on his inner thighs and he is straining, eyes squeezed shut, desperate not to fall.

       It's in the heavy darkness that he can reach a hand out and feel the nape of Bucky's neck. His fingers linger on the soft skin behind his ears and trace down the long curve of his jaw. He imagines holding a paintbrush and tracing each line onto paper in sunlight.

       Bucky suddenly takes him wholly into his mouth and Steve gasps loudly enough for the sound to escape the confines of Bucky’s hand. It is warm and wet and they are one and he stiffens and tries to push back but Bucky follows and he can't help but release and they are still one as Bucky swallows and swallows...

       It's in the darkness that his hand releases and Steve can breath again. It's in the darkness that Bucky finds him, and his mouth is met with the soft warm lips of his best friend. It's in the darkness that the rules are broken but,

       Steve pulls away and murmurs

       “I love you”

       and he buries his nose in the crook of Bucky's neck and smells the remains of the day and hears a whispered release,

       “I love you too.”

 

* * *

 

       The days pass slowly by. Each morning, they leave the small mattress and the memory of darkness disappears. There is a schedule to keep, of course.

       Steve makes breakfast.

       He watches as Bucky eats. In the sunlight he memorizes the shape of Bucky’s mouth, the shape of his nose, the lines of his neck. He remembers the paintbrush. If their eyes meet, he looks down.

       Bucky goes to work.

       Steve moves from the kitchen into his studio.

       Steve draws.

       He continues to work on his 'Captain America'. There are four different poster samples that he submits, and he waits as days go by, and while he waits he draws, and while he draws he remembers and feels the heat on his cheeks and the warmth in his chest.

       He sees the boys from the town walk past his window. They are in full army dress now. More and more are being called away every day to fight for their country and Steve watches them, sick with envy. They move with purpose. They move with grace and strength and will, and their faces are powerful. They make their crying mothers proud.

       Steve wants to fight. Bucky does not.

       They argue about this.

       Steve has tried to enlist.

       They argue more.

       Bucky looks sad these days—looks harder and worn. He'll always be beautiful, but when Steve watches him in the mornings, when he continues to memorize the lines of his face, it doesn't look as soft.

       Then the darkness falls and Steve touches the curve of his jaw, and marvels at it’s strength. Steve wonders how he could ever leave to defend his country if Bucky were to stay. All that makes him whole is right here in Brooklyn.

       They talk sometimes, in the night. Always hushed whispers, close enough to feel the puffs of each other's breath in their ears. Sometimes it's moments like these that feel like the world doesn't exist outside of their apartment..

       “Hey Buck?”

       “Hey punk?”

       Steve punches him in the arm and Bucky swears.

       “Shit! Fine. Hey Steve?” He enunciates slowly, drawls out the name and Steve grimaces.

       “You are a pain in the ass, Barnes. I just was wonderin' about when you might man up and get yourself a dame?” He quirks a grin. It's something they talk about occasionally, a joke between them.

       This time Bucky sighs.

       “I dunno Steve. You deserve more than all this, y'know? You've got talent and your art, and you're smart, and you just...”

       Steve reaches out for his hand and holds it up against his cheek. Turns his head in and kisses down Bucky's palm.

       “It's just a joke Buck—”

       “Steve.”

       It's a plaintive call—it paralyzes the air in the room. Steve can feel his heart quicken in his chest, can feel himself falling, can feel heavy pressure expanding all around him. He takes a breath, face still pressed into Bucky's hand. He smells smoke. He smells the end.

       Bucky's eyes stray down and that shouldn’t happen, it is all wrong. It is not daylight now, there are no rules here in the darkness, they're allowed to look at each other—

       “I got my draft notice, Steve.”

       You can't be too careful. Sometimes it's moments like these that feel like there will be no future.

\---

       Steve doesn't panic. The days still pass by. Bucky has his notice, but he doesn't have his orders, his date to leave, to train. They still have the darkness.

       Steve doesn't try to enlist again. That was the past. Now, in the future, he knows Bucky will go to fight, and Bucky will go to lead, and Bucky will go to win, and Steve will wait. He knows that Bucky will come home again and maybe he will find a dame because Bucky likes dames. Steve just is. But maybe they will share each other in the darkness again once more and taste each other's lips and feel each other’s skin and that would be real fine.

 

* * *

 

       It's two weeks after Bucky's announcement that Steve gets the letter.

          

       He waits at his desk and watches out the window as the sun sets. He hears the soft sigh of air again, listens for the sound of the rubber easing its way across the hardwood. He waits for the faint smell of cigarettes and sweat to bloom in the air before turning around.

       “Hey Buck.”

       “Hell, Rogers!” Bucky leans in the door frame, grinning ear to ear. “Don't know why I even try!”

       It's a momentary lapse in judgement. He knows. He speaks anyways.

       “Don't stop.”

       Bucky looks at him, an odd glint in his eye.

       “I mean… trying. To sneak up on me? I need this to feel the same. I need this to still be normal. Don't stop.” Steve is still surprised by the raw syllables falling gracelessly from his lips, by the sudden sadness that washes over him. But their gaze holds. In the lingering rays of sun reaching through the window, Steve can see a new tightness around Bucky's face—a tightness he doesn't want to feel or paint.

       Bucky nods once.

       “I won't.”

       He blinks. The moment born of daylight dissolves into static around them.

       “This came today,” Steve says as he slides the letter across the desk, towards Bucky, and waits impatiently. He watches Bucky’s face as his eyes flit over the letter, and is rewarded by the brightness that blooms across Bucky’s features, a smile that spreads wide.

       “I knew it,” Bucky whispers. “I knew it Steve!” He speaks louder now, and Steve revels in the warming joy that pumps through his body at the pride in his friend's voice.

       Bucky puts the letter down and looks up.

       “You have to call Steve! You have to call now! I'll go with you, or...” he looks outside, “I'll wait for you! You could run down the street to the market and use their telephone line, and I can wait...”

       he pauses and examines Steve's wrinkled brow, then sighs.

       “You already called them, didn't you? You punk!” Bucky is exasperated, he is giddy, he is thrilled.

       “Soon as I got the letter. They're comin' tomorrow afternoon, Buck, to take a photo. Of me! I'm part of the effort now—I'm part of something! Me and good old Captain America! And they loved the name, Buck—they're gonna put him up all over town, and it's almost as good as fightin'. It's almost as good.”

       Bucky is giddy, he is thrilled, he is scared,

       Bucky has his own letter. It's in his dresser drawer. He won't share it with Steve just yet.

       Bucky steps over the invisible boundary and pulls Steve up and off of his stool—hugs him in a crushing embrace and won't let go. He is scared, but he won't let go.

       Steve is centered on this moment in time and he grasps it tightly. Twists it skin-tight around his knuckles and braces himself for the pull. Won't let go.

       “Steve,” Bucky whispers into his right ear, “Let's go dancing.”

\---

       The lighting is dim and the dancing is fast and the music is loud and the room smells like sweat but Steve is throwing back gin (stirred and straight up!) as if he's not ninety pounds soaking wet. It's okay because they’re celebratin'. He's smiling, his cheeks are flushed red as any rose in June, and Bucky's dancing, he's dancing! It's beautiful and it's graceful, it’s midnight and he's still dancing, the dame he's holding is quickly falling to pieces in his arms because—

       a world without Bucky would be without color—

       he shakes his head.

       —the dame Bucky’s holding is quickly falling to pieces in his arms, because what dame doesn't fancy James Barnes? Bucky's dancing, but he peeks over her perfectly styled tresses and Steve sways a bit right where he stands.

       Steve just is. The rules are still in place.

       He never dances. Bucky has tried to convince him in earnest. He leads girl after girl over and they titter politely and offer their delicate hands but Steve only has eyes for calloused fingers. He 'no ma'ams' and 'sorry ma'ams' and 'James'll dance with you, if you want to ma'ams' and he drinks his gin and then he watches, and just is, because

       if Steve were to dance, he might descend into the something that he's not allowed to become while the rules are still in place.

       But right now they are celebrating, and sometimes Bucky stumbles over to the bar and orders himself another bourbon, neat. Maybe he stumbles a bit and catches himself on Steve's shoulder, on Steve's arm. No one minds ‘cause he's been drinking bourbon, neat, but he always catches Steve's eye and smiles and says, “sorry punk, sure didn't mean to!”

       No one minds, but Steve knows.

       So Bucky's dancing, and he's sweating, and those creases around his eyes are melting away, and he's beautiful and it's well into the morning when he returns again to the bar and catches himself on Steve's arm, on Steve's thigh. Steve winks conspiratorially at the barkeep and looks around quickly before announcing,

       “Jeez, Barnes. Best be gettin’ you back home don'tcha think?”

       And though he is slurring his words as well, he notices, (with no small amount of pride), that there are more than a few dames looking positively heartbroken as they watch from a distance. Steve leans into Bucky and they both stumble together from the bar.

\---

       They barely push the door shut before they are stripping out of their clothes and Steve has Bucky pinned against the wall. He pushes himself up on the tips of his toes with the palm of his left hand pressing into Bucky's chest and his right fingers clench a tight fistful of hair, pulling their mouths together in desperation. Their tongues meet, and Steve can taste the faintest hint of vanilla left over from the bourbon, and he yearns for more; it's a deep ache that throbs through his veins.

       There are never inhibitions in the darkness—only acts that have gone untested.

       It's cold here in the Brooklyn night, but their bodies are on fire and the pull between them is impossible to resist after having been denied for so long. After dancing, they get like this. They become this together. They do it on purpose.

       It's unspoken, but Steve loves to watch the way Bucky moves along with music, the way he glides through the smoky air. He imagines the taste of his chest, of his thighs, of his neck, while Bucky dances on, and it's almost enough to make him come, sitting right there at the bar.

       Bucky loves it too—loves the feeling of Steve's eyes only on him. They rarely go out like this, but each time they return touch-starved and impossibly hungry for connection.

       Bucky groans—a tormented sound released deep from his throat—and Steve suddenly pulls back with his right hand. Bucky's head hits the wall with a dull thud—a sound that feels as if it is escaping from Steve's chest. Bucky's eyes snap open and Steve leans his head in towards Bucky's left ear and his tongue darts out, taking the smallest taste.

       Steve pulls away slightly, only to nudge his head into the space between Bucky’s shoulder and ear. He can smell the vanilla now, and his tongue returns to try and catch the fleeting notes, to taste each flavor from neck to ear.

       Bucky gasps, “Steve,” and Steve again jerks his right hand tightly—Bucky's head again hits against the plaster and Steve's tongue flickers back.

       “Don’t move,” he whispers, and watches tiny goosebumps appear on the flesh behind Bucky's ear. “You don't make a single sound unless I tell you to.” His head moves to the side, nose barely skimming Bucky’s cheek, and he makes eye contact while slowly releasing his grip. Bucky is staring at him now, pupils blown wide, breathing hitched.

       Steve's fingers trace down the side of Bucky's face, down the front of his chest, his hand painfully slow as his fingertips brush against his cock. He hears Bucky’s sudden intake of breath, and his fingers creep back up again.

       “Do. Not. Move.”

       Bucky's eyes flutter closed and he nods his head, a small sharp movement. His hands are balled into fists, and he’s straining to stay still with every second that passes. Steve moves forward one more time, his lips brushing softly against Bucky's, then he slowly kneels down and swallows him whole. His nose is pressed up against Bucky’s groin, inhaling the scent of musk and sex, and he pushes in closer. He wants to touch himself, he wants to close his hand around his own length, he wants to bury himself inside Bucky. He wants to cry, he wants to paint.

       He moans.

       Bucky is trembling now. Steve’ mouth is slowly moving back and forth, and his fingers are creeping back, brushing against velvety skin, and they have never done it this way before—with roles reversed, but Bucky tastes like color and he can feel each intake of breath, _why_ have they never done it this way before? The colors seem so bright; his eyes are closed, but they seem so bright. He groans again and he needs to feel, he has to touch, Bucky's hands move suddenly from the wall.

       Steve releases and moves off his knees—his right forearm comes up and pushes into Bucky's throat. He rises on the balls of his feet, and his tongue licks small trickles of sweat from neck to chin as Bucky gulps.

       “Steve, I… I can't… I'm gonna come—“

       Steve speaks, whispered syllables pushing into the dead air.

       “Not until I tell you to.” His left hand grasps Bucky's cock and with each pull, the feeling of hard flesh sends tingles up his arm. He can feel every time Bucky swallows against his forearm, he loves this semblance of control, he wants to be touched but more importantly, he wants to feel alive.

       It's something like magic, this feeling of Bucky coming undone under his weight.

       Bucky is whimpering as Steve leans in one last time.

       “Now.”

       He moves in and catches Buck's loud keening wail with his mouth, swallows it and begs silently for more. The only sounds that escape are harsh pants through his nose. Their bodies press together and Steve can feel wetness, it keeps coming, and they are grinding against each other and then Steve is coming too.

       The moonlight slips softly through the window and quietly contemplates the scene.

 

* * *

 

       The photographer is a small, mousy sort of man. He fritters around the room, obsessively straightening small objects on the desk and occasionally pauses to let out a long exhalation of breath.

       Steve sits uncomfortably upon his stool, watching the process. The man turns to him next and stares, brows furrowed, as though he is inspecting an exquisite piece of art and finding it to be quite lacking. He finally grunts a bit, then bends over his camera before speaking.

       “You got a comb or somethin'?”

       Steve starts. “Sorry?”

       “A comb. For yer hair. It's the only thing off in the frame.”

       “Oh, err, yes.” Steve eases off the stool. “I'll just go take care of that then?”

       The photographer grunts again in seeming approval, so Steve brushes past him and makes his way into the bedroom. He tries smoothing down his blond hair with just his hand, but his hair is fine and full of static, and even he can see that the photographer has a point. He moves over to Bucky's dresser, certain that he must have an extra comb about, and slides the top drawer open and begins rifling through the pairs of perfectly folded socks.

       The letter isn't even hidden. It's tucked away haphazardly into the corner of the drawer, peeking out, shoved in with no care at all, just anxiety and dismay.

       Steve opens it without a thought.

       Steve wants to fight.

       Bucky doesn't.

       It seems unfair and wrong. He wants to tear it up into pieces and bury them deep with a hatred that he can’t even speak aloud; he wants to be tall and strong and go with Bucky, and show him it's all worth it, it’s all for something. He wants to yell and scream and stomp his feet because, _why wouldn't Bucky tell him_. He wants to paint.

       Bucky leaves tomorrow.

       Steve folds up the letter again, then places it on top of the dresser. His hands are shaking. He doesn't know what to feel. He doesn't know what he wants to feel.

       He finds the comb and pulls it through his hair.

       He sighs.

       He wants to fight.

       He walks back to the studio and sits on the stool that is placed perfectly by the window and looks at the clutter free desk and looks toward the sunlight streaming in and looks back at the mousy man.

       The photographer says 'smile'.

       'Smile' is not what he wants to feel.

\---

       Steve waits. He hears Bucky come in. It's a quiet sort of entrance, the sort that can be persuaded to go unnoticed by most. He has been in this moment before. Will he continue to turn and greet an empty apartment once tomorrow comes? He turns today.

       “Hey Buck.”

       “Hey Stevie.” Bucky smiles at him then. It's so genuine and so beautiful, Steve just wants to cry. He looks down at his feet instead.

       “So, tomorrow, huh?”

       There is silence.

       This is not the silence of darkness. It is not a silence that speaks of home, of words unspoken, of promises kept.

       This is a silence of loss.

       He looks up. Bucky eyes are wet, full of tears threatening to break free at any moment. He is clutching the door frame and looks like he might throw up. He tries to speak, but it is too soon for sound. Steve knows. Steve moves towards him. They do not look at the window. They embrace in daylight, sunlight streaming in around them. Steve can hear children playing, and can see tree limbs blowing in the wind. He is buried deeply within Bucky's scent, and wrapped tightly in his arms, and there is no joy in this sudden destruction of the unspoken rules because the time for sound has arrived.

       “Steve, I'm so damn scared.”

 

* * *

 

_This is the way the world ends_

_Not with a bang but a whimper._

       Steve remembers reading Eliot in the library with Buck. He loved poetry, but they were just kids, they didn't understand—they couldn't understand. The simple poetry was so dramatic then, even against the backdrop of the Great War. They read, and giggled and read some more, tongues lingering on the verse, not knowing why the words tasted of terror, only knowing that it made them feel. They ran home after—chasing each other through the dirty streets. His ma was alive then. She loved Bucky, she truly did. Bucky's own family was a mess at the time. Sarah put up with his antics, and cooked him meals, kept him warm and maybe, just maybe, she understood the way her son looked at him.

       He remembers more:

_We are the hollow men_

_We are the stuffed men_

_leaning together_

       He didn't feel it after her death. He didn't feel much of anything but relief that her suffering was done and over. He thinks he understands now, what it means to be hollow.

       They lay together on the bed, hands clasped together and noses brushing against each other. Steve can feel Bucky's breath warm against his cheek.

       They don't speak anymore. There is nothing to be said. Their lips meet. They taste each other, tentatively, gently. They need to remember every piece of one another because there will be no photographs. Steve reaches out and knows that tomorrow, when his world ends, he will start to paint James Buchanan Barnes.

       Their fingers glide down flesh. They move together and they sweat together and they cry.

       There is a simple magic in this transitory scene.

\---

       The world does not end. The morning is bright. They ease from the mattress and the memory of darkness lingers.

       Bucky dresses quickly and Steve watches. He is not entirely sure of what to do with his own body anymore. He is not entirely sure how to go on after this. Bucky is ready quickly. His bag seems small after it’s packed. There will never be enough time for what is about to happen.

       Bucky looks him over before he speaks.

       “Don't do anything stupid 'till I get back”

       Steve tries. He does. “How could I? You're takin'—“ He swallows, looks down, can’t fill the silence anymore. “Shit.”

       Bucky understands. “Come here, punk.”

       They allow the embrace to go on. Steve doesn't cry. Bucky pulls back slightly and looks deep into his eyes, kisses him once, then turns. Steve wants to speak but the syllables die on his lips.

       The door eases close, a quiet shiver of sound.

       Steve wants to move, but his heart dies in his chest.

 

* * *

 

       Here are the rules. They are friends. This will not change. They don't touch each other. They don't look. They are not queers or fairies or polite 'homosexuals'. Bucky likes dames. Steve just is. Steve will continue to paint. His posters are all over the town now and people talk about Captain America in the streets. He lives in the apartment alone. If he opens the window and the wind is just right, then he can feel a cool breeze right off the ocean that smells of salt and of sweat and he can almost imagine that they are friends again greeting each other at the end of the day and waiting quietly for the darkness to fall, but they aren't and it won't. So as the days pass he will continue to write letters, and in a few months Bucky will return home. When that happens, the sun will set and all they will smell is each other, and things will begin to slowly change so that there are no more rules.


End file.
